


Unconditional Things

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Magic, Cookies, Crack, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical!James Is Adorable, Protective!Michael Again, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Spring McFassy Fest for this prompt: <i>Sure, James may have joked about it during an interview but he really is Amore. No, really. And his next target is Michael. Except, he doesn't want to make Michael fall in love with anyone else. James wants Michael to fall in love with him.</i> Total crack!fic in which James is magical, Michael is romantic, and there're a lot of cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconditional Things

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason this prompt just wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write it. Title and opening lines from Alanis Morisette’s “Head Over Feet” (which was on our wedding playlist, in fact).

_you’ve already won me over in spite of me  
and don’t be alarmed if I fall head over feet_   
_and don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are_   
_I couldn’t help it_   
_it’s all your fault…_

James has a problem.

“I have a problem,” he says, to the mirror.

The mirror, being only glass and dull backing, doesn’t even try to answer. His reflection watches him compassionately, though.

“I’m not supposed to fall in love,” James says to it. “That’s ridiculous. That’s like falling in love with…myself. Or something.”

Still nothing. “Besides, I’m supposed to be making him fall in love with someone else. That’s why I’m here. On this movie set. Being an actor. He _is_ an actor, and it’s an assignment, he’s my assignment, and I wouldn’t be able to be with him anyway.”

In reply, the walls of the trailer creak loudly, settling into a new configuration. He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean.

“Just because I want him,” James says, “just because he has too many teeth, and he makes me laugh, and he looks at me like he’s excited that I’m here, and I’m excited that he’s here, and I can’t not be in love with him, and I _don’t know what I’m supposed to do_.”

At which point there’s a knock on the door. “Mr McAvoy? Five minutes.”

James sighs, opens the door, puts on a smile, and says, “I thought I told you to call me James, honestly, don’t we know each other better than that by now?” and makes the waiting personal assistant blush as pink as her fluffy pen.

On the way to set, he glares at two hapless sparrows, and makes them tumble instantly into love with each other, just because he can.

Michael’s standing there in his nondescript training-montage sweatsuit, talking to Matthew. The sunlight flickers through his hair, when he tips his head, when he laughs.

James stops walking for just a second, because the unguarded pleasure in that sound is so beautiful it’s almost painful to hear.

And then Michael turns around. And those sage-green eyes light up, Irish heather and peat moss on a cloudy day, getting more brilliant at the sight of James approaching.

He remembers how to walk closer, not because he means to, but because he can’t do anything else, in response to that gaze.

“James,” Michael says, grinning, and then, “oh, here, I got you coffee, you were looking tired earlier and I thought you could use it, are you feeling better, you’re kind of smiling at me…?”

Of course he is. The whole world smiles, when Michael does. It’s all the teeth. Or maybe just the unabashed joy.

“Thank you.” He takes the cup out of Michael’s hand; Michael doesn’t quite let go, so their fingers touch. Those eyes look down into his. And the smile changes, becoming something more private, warmer, less exuberant but sweeter. James forgets how to breathe.

After Michael finally moves his hand, James manages to take a sip. And then stares from the cup to Michael in surprise. “Raspberry?”

“You told me once that you liked raspberries?”

“I did?”

“Um…the first night we did a read-through of the script? And we went out for drinks after, and you ordered something pink and girly and you weren’t at all embarrassed about it and I made fun of you and you said you liked anything with raspberry syrup in it?”

“…oh, god,” James says, a little weakly. “You remember that? Also, it wasn’t girly. It was manly. A very manly pink cocktail.”

“Of course I do,” Michael says. “I remember everything you say you like. Especially when they’re that awful a shade of pink.” And the words are teasing, but there’s another emotion behind the humor, something deeper and warmer than the sunshine above.

And James wants to cry. Because Michael does remember everything, all the stupid little things, because Michael’s thoughtful and romantic and unafraid to touch James and smile like that in public, hopefully, wistfully, full of desire. Because Michael’s trying to court him with raspberry-flavored coffee and his heart in his eyes, and it’s working, it’s working so damn well.

Because Michael has no idea that James can’t love him in return. No. Not can’t. James very definitely can. He does.

He shouldn’t. He’s not allowed.

He’s here for a purpose. He’s meant to be making Michael want Zoe Kravitz, who if certain glances are any indication isn’t going to need James’s help on her end at all, because that’s the assignment. That’s why he’s pretending to be an actor, false memories casually rearranging the world around them: James McAvoy, Scottish, too much hair, slightly chubby, raised by his grandparents, has always been an actor, has a complete filmography and backstory to prove it. And all of that’s more or less true, in fact, for this specific incarnation of himself. It’s just that he’s leaving out certain details, such as that his acting experience consists of becoming whatever he needs to be, to slide into the lives of his targets and smile at them and tell them, very persuasively, that they’re in love.

He’s always enjoyed being Cupid. He’s good at it. People seem to respond to him easily. They like him even when he doesn’t exert much effort. It’s a talent, evidently. His grandmother’d told him so, once, when it became clear that James was fascinated by her own abilities, and therefore probably next in line.

It’s a family thing. Inheritance, of a sort. The sort that’s unavoidable, when one is old enough. There’re others, of course, but he comes from a long line of incarnations of Cupid, and the family’s rather proud of that fact.

He’d asked why she did it. Why she obeyed the rules, and altered people’s lives when the suggestions came. What would happen if she made two people fall in love who weren’t supposed to be together.

She’d looked at him with the same expression she’d worn the day she’d realized he was tall enough to steal cookies even from the top of the refrigerator, and sighed. Asked, not without some sorrow, why he thought he lived with her, and not his parents.

He’d said, softly: you could’ve tried to make it last. And she’d answered, in a tone that forbade any further discussion, that she couldn’t.

It’d taken him a few more years to understand. She’d meant wouldn’t, of course, but for reasons that made it all the same in the end.

Things worked themselves out, she’d said. As long as one followed the plan. After all, otherwise he, and his sister, would never have been hers, and they’d not have been a family. But they are.

The day she’d officially retired, turning those duties over to him, he’d been excited. She’d shaken her head and told him, not as sympathetically as she’d probably meant it to be, that someday he’d find it more of a curse. He hadn’t—he’d been thrilled the first time the Powers That Be had turned up and tapped him on the shoulder and given him an assignment—until now.

The shoulder-tapping had been more or less metaphorical, though the thunderous headache that came along with the Voice had been a bit of a surprise. He’d always imagined something much gentler, possibly with sparkles.

These days he’s privately concluded that the Voice sounds like an overworked office manager, and he’s mostly used to the painfulness, after. The standard kind, anyway. At the moment the Powers That Be appear to be rather annoyed with him, because he’s spent months on this film set and he hasn’t finished this particular assignment.

He could. In minutes, if he had to. With a single simple suggestion. And he does trust that there’re reasons why he’s here. That this is a piece of the Plan.

But he can’t bring himself to look at Michael with that intent, to make that suggestion, to push Michael into a relationship that’s not what he wants.

Michael wants James. That’s happened naturally. It happens frequently, of course—unavoidable, when one is very literally an incarnation of love—but this feels different. Michael looks at him and sees him, _James_ , not with lust, though that’s definitely in there too, but with that other emotion. The emotion that leads Michael to remember all of James’s favorite foods, and produce delicious coffee out of thin air because he thinks that James looks tired.

And James, who never has been an actor before, not in this or any incarnation, loves so many things about this life. The friendship. The storytelling. The late nights, discussing character motivations, heartbreak, Erik’s morality, Charles’s ethical dilemmas. The romance of it all. And, at the heart of everything, in there right alongside him, Michael.

He’s not immortal, not exactly. The Cupid memories get passed down from person to person, of course. In that sense he’s going to bloody well live forever. But this physical form can die, and be hurt, and feel pain. Like heartbreak.

“James,” Michael says, looking suddenly worried. The sunlight tiptoes between them. Makes a bed out of the green mansion-ground grass, and settles down.

Right. He’s an actor. And a good one. So he will be. In so many ways.

He smiles back at Michael. Says, “I’m fine, only kind of easily distracted right now, I think you’re right, I am tired,” and Michael puts an arm around him, and James leans into that tightly muscled body because he can’t not, and when their eyes meet the contact feels like a kiss.

That night, he stares at the blank hotel-room walls and walks through them, into Elsewhere, and flops into a chair, and sighs.

The other members of their monthly meeting group—the group that James, irreverently, has begun calling Incarnations Anonymous, which earns groans from most and the occasional very literal cold shoulder from this year’s version of Jack Frost—all look at him, with some sympathy.

“Do you want a cookie?” says Anne, predictably. She’s the best friend and incidental embodiment of fertility a person could have, really. Plus she’s also working as an actress, in this manifestation. Has been for longer than James. So she can sympathize.

“Maybe,” he says, and heads turn in his direction, around the room.

“ _You_ don’t want cookies?”

“Must be serious.”

“Of course it is, he’s in love.”

“Isn’t that like a snake eating its own tail?”

“That’s a disgusting visual,” James says, “and you can all shut up and leave the plate over here.”

“Do chocolate chips count as an aphrodisiac?”

“I hate you all.”

“No, you don’t.” Anne sits down next to him. Tonight’s monthly meeting must be happening in a created space of her design, considering the fluffy floor cushions and lemon-drop-yellow décor and knitted lampshades. There’re even happy bunny motifs, carvings scampering playfully around the corners of the room, or at least they look like they’re playing until given closer inspection. Anne is the personification of new life and reproductive joy, after all.

The whole room is friendly, though, despite the disconcerting rabbits. Demonstrative. Even the chair he’s in wants to snuggle with him. Anne pats him on the arm. “Seriously, James…can we help? At all? This isn’t like you.”

“Which me? The me that’s supposed to be doing my job? Making him fall in love with someone else? Making him be with someone he doesn’t genuinely want? Or—”

“The you that’s you, James. We’re worried. You aren’t happy.”

“I should be, I spend my life making everyone else happy, don’t I?” Maybe if he puts an entire cookie in his mouth Anne will stop asking questions.

“You,” says Kris, from the corner, “are far too young to be this cynical. It’s just a little crisis of belief. We all have those.”

“Everyone believes in Santa Claus,” James says. “Even the ones who don’t. They want to. And you’re not changing anyone’s bloody lives around, or messing with their emotions, or telling them who to be in love with or not in love with—”

“Is he in love with you?” Trust Anne to ask that one.

“I think so.” He sighs. “I don’t know what to do. Someone tell me what I should do.”

“You do your job,” mutters the coyote shape, from a pile of cushions. “That’s what we do. There are rules. Not that I’d know what they are, of course.”

“Someone who isn’t a trickster myth tell me what I should do, please.”

“We really don’t know.” Anne pats him on the shoulder. Compassionately. “I’m not sure this has ever happened before, in fact. Not to a Cupid.”

“Other people?”

Kris shrugs. “I married mine. She’s part of the story, now.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yes, thank you.” There are two cookies left. He feels exactly no guilt about eating another one. They all deserve to have no cookies, except maybe Anne. “Can we talk about something else, then? Halloween? Any witches around tonight?”

Two hands go up. He doesn’t recognize either of the faces they’re attached to. “Hi, are you new?” Nods. “Okay, well, we’re not normally this melodramatic—”

“Yes we are!”

“Okay, the Tooth Fairies are, but mostly we’re really nice—yes, I said mostly, and I did see that expression, and yes, I meant you—”

“Just for that I’m killing your pet goldfish _before its time_.”

“You’re not allowed to do that, and I don’t even own a goldfish.”

“I’ll wait until you do.”

“—anyway, so that’s the point of this, right, if we can’t talk to each other, we can’t talk to anyone, so—”

“Is there alcohol? I want a beer, if you’re going to give them the welcome-to-the-club speech.”

“Stop interrupting,” James says, “and bring me one too, so I can lead by example,” and the witches glance at each other and then at him, and James smiles at them until they look reassured, and by the end of the night they’re half-drunk and socializing with two pixies. Good, he thinks, he’s made life better for someone, at least, for now.

He vaguely remembers pushing reality out of the way and wandering back to his hotel room, later. Wakes up to a horrific hangover and a plate of heart-shaped peanut-butter cookies that hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep. Stares at them for a while, shrugs, and gives in. They make a decent breakfast, and he feels a tiny bit better knowing that Anne cares, even though nothing’s really been fixed at all.

They’re filming inside the mansion, the next day. Erik and Charles playing chess and having serious conversations about peacefulness and killing and other options. Michael takes one look at James, under the artificial lights, and pushes him into a chair.

“Are you all right? Sit down.”

“I’m fine. I didn’t get much sleep…”

“But—you did, you went to bed early, I thought—” Michael hesitates. James suddenly realizes what he’s thinking, and grabs the hand closest to his, impulsively.

“I did. I wasn’t—with anyone.” Not in the way that Michael’s afraid of, and trying not to be. “I just couldn’t sleep.” And then, because those Irish-spring eyes are still too trepidatious and struggling with concern and unfounded jealousy and affection, because he can’t not say it, because it’s true, “I was thinking about you.”

And sunrise comes up behind the green, shimmering with hope. “You…were?”

“I was,” James says, firmly, and Michael squeezes his hand. “James—”

“You two!” Matthew shouts. “Go find your marks and stop cuddling on my film set!”

“You’re just jealous because no one’s cuddling you!” Michael calls back, and tugs James up out of the chair, a little too fast, so that they end up colliding, pressed together, breathless. Smiling.

“We’ll talk later,” Michael promises, “we’re going to talk about this, all right? You, and me?”

James nods. He’d answer, but his brain keeps repeating that phrase— _you and me_ —in that voice, and he can’t think of any other words, which might be a problem when he has to remember Charles’s lines.

Michael grins. And the morning begins.

A few hours later, it’s not going as well. Michael’s been dragged away to do some close-up shots, extra footage, and James finishes pretending to lecture Lucas and looks pathetically at Matthew, who ignores him.

“I’m hungry,” Lucas says, which, now that James thinks about it, is also true for him. The cookies, as delicious as they’d been, hadn’t made a very substantial breakfast. He’s less preoccupied with that need, though. More consumed by the other need.

Michael’d said they were going to talk. About the two of them. About them _being_ a them. The anticipation tingles, beneath his skin.

“Are we done yet?”

“One more.”

They do.

“Please?”

“One more…”

“Now?”

“Okay _fine_. Be back in half an hour! James, don’t lose Charles’s gloves anywhere today! If you can!”

James makes a cheerfully rude gesture in Matthew’s direction—that’d completely not been his fault, he’d been wearing them to dinner, last week, and had taken them off, left them on the table, and utterly forgotten to pick them back up because Michael’d been smiling at him—and sprints for the door.

Or tries to. When he’s nearly there, he feels the weight descending into his head, the unsubtle announcement of immanence that always comes just before the Voice. He has barely enough time to dart into the restroom, and lock the door.

**You are behaving very badly!**

“Some warning, please! I’m working!”

**You are not an actor. You are a Cupid.**

“I…that was what I meant. You’re interrupting me.”

**You are not very good at lying to us.**

“I’ve not had a lot of practice, have I? Does good behavior for fucking _centuries_ not count in my favor?”

**That was not precisely you.**

“They’re my memories. They are me. You’ve told me so!”

**Nevertheless. _This_ you is becoming very willful. We do not approve. There is a Plan for these things.**

“I know, I _know_ —”

**You persuade others to fall in love. You do not get to fall in love. Not until this incarnation dies, or resigns. That is the position.**

“Until I _die_? You don’t think there’s something wrong with that statement?”

**No.**

“Then I can resign.” The powers, and the responsibility, will most likely go to his sister, and he could feel bad about that—Joy has made it absolutely clear that she wants no part of the heritage—but he can apologize later. Anyway, she can refuse. They’ve got cousins scattered around.

**You cannot resign in the middle of an assignment.**

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

**Your statement is nonsensical. We do not have parents as such.**

“All _right_ , never mind—”

**In any case, even were we to have parents, human standards of marriage and legitimacy would not apply—**

“Yes, thank you! I’m trying to think.”

**You should be trying to do your job. Our job.**

“I didn’t ask for this. Not ever.”

**You are perilously close to disobedience.**

The headache that follows this dour observation is sharp, spiky, and vicious, and James knows from painful experience that, being supernatural in origin, it won’t be alleviated by aspirin in any way at all.

“Ow,” he says, mostly just to complain.

**You deserve it.**

The attention departs. The headache doesn’t.

“Well, fuck,” James says, to his hands, and sags against the countertop for a minute, and then puts on his best nothing’s-wrong expression, and steps out of the restroom.

He nearly trips over Michael, who’s right outside the door. “James?”

“Oh,” James says, trying to catch his breath, surprised and happy and in pain. “Oh, hi, I was about to come find you—”

“I was coming to find _you_ , and Lucas said you were in here and—are you all right? You look like you’re about to pass out, James, what’s wrong?” Michael’s hands are warm, on his shoulders. And those unfairly mesmerizing eyes are gazing into his, intently, from inches away.

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not! James, please tell me. Is it—is there anything I can do?” Michael lifts one hand. Brushes unruly hair out of James’s face, tucking it behind his ear. Murmurs, quietly, “Please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” James says, and even as he says it he’s taking a step forward and wrapping his arms around Michael, losing himself in all that offered love. It pulls him in like a magnet. “I can’t, you can’t fix this, I can’t fix this, and I don’t know what to do—”

“James…” Michael holds him, not too tightly, but with conviction. Commitment. As if he believes in the power of the words, and in the embrace. “Are you in some kind of trouble? If you are, I want to help. No matter what, okay? I’m here.”

“You’re perfect,” James says, into the folds of Michael’s shirt, despairingly. “Why are you perfect?”

Michael actually laughs. Not the response James would’ve expected. “Did you just say—”

“…no?”

“You did. And I’m not. But…if you think that…” Michael puts a hand under James’s chin. Tips his face up, so their eyes catch. “James, you know I…I’m your friend, of course I am, but…more than that, too, maybe? If you want that? If you want me?”

“Of course I want you!”

“Then—thank god, by the way, I was starting to be afraid you wouldn’t ever say—then let me help. Please. I promise I won’t think less of you, whatever it is. I just—I want to see you happy, again.” Still so sincere. And James’s heart is busy trying to swell and beat and break simultaneously, with the torrent of emotions rampaging through it.

He can’t tell Michael. Can he? _Can_ he? None of his past memories offer any useful advice, in this situation. This situation’s never happened before. James is, evidently, unique. A bloody special Cupid.

Michael’s human and can’t see the supernatural world and wouldn’t believe him if he tried to explain. Probably not. Maybe. James can be astoundingly persuasive, that’s part of the job, but… _that_ persuasive? Without proof? And what would he do, if Michael looked at him with suddenly guarded eyes and said _I’m sorry, James, I think you might be crazy?_

He doesn’t know anything anymore and he wants to stay in Michael’s arms forever and wants the world to stop turning, just for a second, an hour, a day, while he figures everything out, and it doesn’t, and Michael strokes a hand over his hair, smoothing down all the mischievous curls, and James buries his face in Michael’s neck and just breathes.

“It’s all right,” Michael whispers. “It _will_ be all right, we can handle anything, together, okay? You, and me? So just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Did I say you were perfect,” James manages, after a while, shakily, “you’re incredible, honestly,” and Michael smiles, a little, and continues looking concerned.

“Can I—”

“For now…I need to…I have to think about some things. I want to tell you. I do. I want you. But I don’t know…Can we go have lunch? Maybe? I feel like food might help.” It probably will, with the dizziness if nothing else. Nothing’s going to work on the headache, except maybe Michael touching him some more.

“All right, food, then. For now.” Michael doesn’t let him go, even as they start walking. Outside, clouds race each other across the sun, and disappear into the distance, leaving the light to pour down over them with sticky heat.

James shuts his eyes against the coruscating brilliance. The world is so bright. Glorious. It should be a marvelous day. If only he wasn’t in pain. If only he could think. If only everything were different.

The sparrows, the ones he’d enchanted on a whim the day before, are sitting together in a tree. They’ve got a nest. They coo and chirp at him, as he and Michael meander carefully past. They no doubt think they’re helping, but they’re not.

“James,” Michael says, sounding amused, “I think the birds’re worried about you.”

“They shouldn’t be.” He looks up, into the tree. “I’m sorry about everything.”

“Did you just apologize to the sparrows?”

“Um…no.”

“Yes, you did. James…” Michael stops walking. Picks up both of James’s hands in his. “You’re fantastic.”

If Michael only knew. “I am not—”

“I told you I’d help, if you were in trouble. I mean that. And right now I—maybe this can help, too, at least a little bit?” And Michael leans down and brings their lips together, through all the sunlight.

James isn’t even surprised. The kiss feels _right_. Like everything he’s ever wanted, and never known he’s wanted, and will ever want for all the weeks and years and decades to come.

He opens his mouth a bit more, learning the way Michael tastes, the small gasp Michael makes at the invitation, and then the cautious delight of discovery, tongue tracing its way over his skin, into his mouth. Inside him. He kisses right back, and wants to melt into Michael’s arms, to lose all their clothing and find out what that tongue and those lips feel like in other places, naked and tingling with need.

Michael groans his name, sound escaping between them, and the lips wander from the corner of James’s mouth down to his throat, heat and pressure and a rasp of teeth, and there’s going to be a mark there, a sign of Michael wanting him, sweet and fierce and primal, and yes _please_.

His knees threaten to buckle, when Michael slips a hand under his shirt and flattens it against the small of his back, pulling him in.

Michael laughs. James can feel the rumble of it through his entire body. He shivers, and leans in closer.

“So…” Michael says, in what’s likely meant to be a teasing tone, but instead comes out faintly awestruck, a note of wonder. “So…you…like me kissing you?”

James nods, trying to remember words, through all the fireworks.

“Good. So you know I do mean it, about wanting this—wanting you. Does that help, at all?”

Yes. It does.

And no one’s interfered, no one’s stopped him, or told him this isn’t allowed, not yet. Maybe no one’s paying attention, or possibly, just possibly, they’ve decided that this is acceptable. Are giving permission. Maybe he can be happy, with Michael, after all.

Even the hideous headache seems to’ve departed, in the wake of that scorching kiss.

“Yes,” he says, because Michael’s waiting for an answer. “Yes, it does, and I want to tell you, I think I can, I—oh, and I like kissing you too, of course I do, I should’ve said earlier, I just couldn’t talk, because you were—”

It’s not merely a headache, this time. The force of it knocks him to the ground. He can’t even scream.

Michael’s there, trying to hold him up. Calling his name. Shouting for help. Panicked.

James would cling to all that strength, but he can’t move. Every muscle, every nerve, is on fire. Sizzling. Slicing like red-hot razors through him, from the inside.  “—Michael,” he gasps.

“James—oh, god, what’s wrong, what happened—can you talk to me—please talk to me, please, I love you—”

“Love you—you can’t help, don’t try—” If Michael tries, Someone might decide he’s worth punishing, too.

 _“What?!”_ Michael’s crying. At least, James thinks he is; it’s hard to tell. Vision is kind of a problem. Blurry. Fading. All the colors seeping into grey. He rests his head against Michael’s chest. Maybe if he shuts his eyes, the pain will go away. Or he will. Either way, the support is nice, because he can’t hold his head up all that well anymore.

“James—oh, no, no, please, please wake up, please, you’re scaring me—oh, god, don’t be—you’re not—you can’t be—I love you, you can’t be leaving me, not now, not when—I love you, James, _please!_ ”

“Sorry…” The word’s an effort. Takes all he has left.

Evidently Someone else hears it as well.

**You apologize to him, and not to us?**

“What the _fuck_?” Michael says, and suddenly there’s a pause as everyone’s attention snaps to him. Even the pain lessens, out of sheer curiosity.

**You can…hear us?**

“Of course I can, who the fuck are you? Are you hurting him?”

**He is being insubordinate.**

“And you’re killing him! And I don’t know who you are, or how you’re doing this, but I swear that if you hurt him I _will_ find you.” Michael’s glaring at the air. And holding onto James as if it’ll take an apocalypse to drag him away, and maybe not even that’d be enough.

James wants to say thank you, or stare in astonishment, but he doesn’t have much room left for coherence, what with all the agony turning his thoughts into cotton wool. He does keep his eyes open, though. So he can watch Michael being angry and brave on his behalf, no matter how much it hurts.

**Er…we think perhaps we need to talk about this. We shall stop time, for a moment, to prevent interference.**

The sensations vanish, so abruptly that James can’t breathe, off-balance. He coughs. Inhales. Working lungs. How remarkable.

“James!”

“Michael…”

“Oh, god—what happened? Are you—all right? Who—what—” Michael looks at James’s face. Visibly stops himself from badgering James with questions.

The Voice has no such consideration. It echoes all around them. Bounces off the inoffensive trees, and startles the sparrows. Everywhere else, outside their tiny bubble of the supernatural, has gone very still, suspended and waiting.

**You are a very poor Cupid, you understand. We really cannot tolerate this. Also, _why_ can he hear us?**

James doesn’t know the answer to that one, but he doesn’t have to.

“Because he’s in love,” says a new voice, and when James peeks out of the protective cradle of Michael’s arms he sees that Anne has arrived, accompanied by Kris Kringle and what appears to be every member of their support group.

Even his witches’ve turned up, looking nervous but determined. James finds himself near tears, and not because of the lingering memories of fire under his skin.

“James,” Anne inquires, “are you all right? We would’ve come sooner, but Someone kept yelling at me about eggs and I couldn’t focus.”

**Eggs are important! They are fertility symbols!**

“Shut up. James?”

“I’m…I kind of feel like I’ve been beaten with a two-by-four, but I’ll be all right.” At this, Michael pulls him a little more upright, and looks into his eyes. James smiles, through all the persistent soreness; after a second, Michael smiles back, despite all the visible remnants of tears, and then folds arms around him again and doesn’t let him sit up on his own. James doesn’t mind this evidence of protectiveness in the least.

He is completely floored, though, when Michael leans over and whispers, in his ear, “Is that Anne Hathaway? Why am I seeing Anne Hathaway?”

“Ah…”

“Hi.” Anne waves. “I’m Easter. James is Cupid. Which you’ve probably guessed. The rest of them aren’t that important.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, come on, he doesn’t need to know.”

“We’re still _important_.”

“You said he could hear you…and see you…because he’s…in love?” He has to ask.

“Well, yes. Most humans can’t. They’d go insane. They’re not equipped to deal with these things. No offense.” This last is directed at Michael.

“None…taken?”

“Anyway, some humans…in times of stress, heightened emotions, or if they care very passionately about someone…not quite human…one of us…they become capable of seeing—or hearing—a bit more. Be happy, James, he obviously loves you.”

“He does?”

“Of course I do,” Michael says, “didn’t you hear me, I told you—I did tell you, and I do love you. Even though I’m confused as hell.”

“I love you, too.”

**This is not solving your problem, James!**

This time all three of them snap “Shut up!” in unison. There’s a rather disgruntled pause, but it’s followed by silence, for which James can only be thankful.

“So,” Michael says. “Cupid?”

“I was going to tell you. I wanted to tell you.” James tries to sit up again. The attempt goes a little better, this time, but Michael’s arms stay around him regardless. “Are you…angry with me? About this?”

“Am I—no, of course not! I’m not even all that surprised. I mean…I should be. And I will be, later. But I’m not, now. I always knew you were…extraordinary. But…” Michael runs a hand through James’s hair, down to his face, touches his cheek. “I am still confused. If you were…were you making me fall in love? With you? And why’s that a problem?”

“I’m not,” James says, horrified, but understanding, because of course, of _course_ Michael would think that, would be suspicious. Has every right to be. “I’m not, I wouldn’t do that, not to you, and that’s why, because I couldn’t. I fell in love with you. And I was supposed to be making you want Zoe, and—”

“Zoe?”

“—I know, and you probably would’ve been happy and gotten married and had beautiful kids and had a perfect life and instead I let you fall in love with me, because I’m selfish, because I love the way you look at me, because you remembered I like raspberry syrup, because it was real, for once, for _me_. And I’m sorry.”

He can’t look at Michael. Would stand up and retreat, someplace where he can be injured and heartbroken alone, except that when he moves to get up long fingers wrap around his shoulders and pull him firmly back into place.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“No…no, you’re right, I should fix this, it’s my fault. I could make you not be in love with me. I can do that, too, you know. I could do that. If you want.” It might not last, of course. He can’t be all that persuasive when he doesn’t truly mean what he’s saying.

Michael sighs. Looks at Anne, of all people. “Is he always this oblivious? I assume you would know.”

“I’m right here,” James says, hopelessly.

“Funny,” Anne says, “actually, no. Only about himself. James, didn’t you hear him? Or yourself? You _told_ him it was real. And he threatened to hunt down the Powers That Be on your behalf. Which, by the way, was kind of stupid, for a human. Noble, but stupid.”

“Thanks,” Michael says, and then rather pointedly looks at Anne and her avenging army. She grins, in perfect understanding, and Michael looks back down at James. “You _did_ tell me it was real. What I’m feeling, for you. And…you said you love me.”

“I do.” That’s one of the few facts he’s certain of, at the moment. He clutches it like a lifeline.

“And you were doing this for me. Being…defiant. You knew they—that—whatever—you knew they might punish you.”

That makes him sound far too heroic. It’s not as if he’d even ever thought about it. He’d only wanted Michael to be happy. And maybe himself to be happy, too.

“James,” Michael says, “how could I not be in love with you?” and kisses him again, clear and bright and incontrovertible as the sun.

“Michael,” James says, after, once he can talk.

“What?”

“That _definitely_ helps.”

Michael laughs.

“You two,” Anne mutters, “are disgustingly sweet.”

The sparrows, caught up inside their little time bubble with everyone else, chirp.

**Can we talk now? If you are thoroughly finished?**

“I don’t know if any of us want to talk to you.”

“Be nice to Them.”

“They hurt you.”

“I don’t want Them to hurt _you_. All right, how do we fix this?”

“What,” Anne inquires, very practically, “were you expecting to happen, if James had done his job?”

“Oh, thanks.”

“It’s how They see it, okay?”

**That is far too complex for you to grasp.**

“Try us.”

**Er…if you must know…children.**

“What?”

**He is meant to reproduce! It is part of the Plan! His ideal genetic material must be perpetuated!**

“Oh god,” Michael says, a little desperately.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s your fault that the universe has decided my genetic material’s ideal…”

**Perhaps the two of you could produce at least one offspring for us.**

“The last time I checked, that was very much not possible!”

**You are best friends with a fertility goddess.**

All eyes swivel toward Anne. Who purses her lips, consideringly. “It’s not exactly common, but…I could probably manage it. At least once. And James is magical, after all.”

**About that…there is one slight complication.**

“Of course there is.”

**If you want this, you will have to give up your immortality. At least that part of you which is not human. And your powers. And let your position go to the next in line.**

“That’s not a slight complication!”

**It is your choice. Mortality, with him. Or immortality, with us. Decide.**

“Him,” James says. It’s easy. And maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is.

“Wait!” Rather astonishingly, the objection comes from Michael. James stares at him. So does Anne. So does the Voice, eyelessly.

“What,” James says, “why—you don’t—you don’t want me?”

“No! I mean yes! I do. You know I do. I love you. But…you’d be giving up all of this. You heard him. It. Them. Immortality, being magical, being…who and what you are…I can’t ask you to do that. Not for me, James, please.”

“…oh.” But it’s still easy. Even more so, now. “You’re not asking. They are. And it’s fair. And I wouldn’t—I don’t need immortality. I’ve had that. I want you.”

“You—”

“Do you know how many people I’ve met, and made fall in love, over—forever? The only one I’ve ever wanted has been you.”

“…I love you.”

“And I love you. And that’s who I am. Not this. I can…just be James, now. I could be an actor. In, um, reality, I mean. I think I’d like that. Being me, with you.”

“I’d like that, too.”

**There may be some side effects.**

“Like what?”

**Er…you will probably always be able to see the supernatural world and the creatures in it.**

“Not a problem.” James grins at Anne, who smiles back.

**You will very likely be considered exceedingly attractive throughout the rest of your life. Even as you age.**

“Huh. Okay, I can live with that.”

“That’d be true anyway.”

“It’s not true now, but I love you.”

**The attraction may extend to both genders, and possibly non-human species as well.**

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means that we shouldn’t have pets.”

“If birds start following you around singing jaunty melodies…”

“Then you’ll what? Reconsider?”

“Never. Sing along, maybe.”

**Finally, all of these effects may be theoretically become shared by any human who remains in close contact with you for an extended period of time.**

“That one means that they’re all your problems, too.”

“So…you mean I get to grow old with you, and we can be gorgeous and magical and in love for as long as we live? I’m not seeing the problems, James.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

**Are we in agreement, then? You will produce at least one offspring for us—at a time of your choosing, but you _will_ —and we will not interfere with your mortal lives?**

James looks at Michael. Grins. Michael looks right back, eyes laughing, delighted, and nods.

“Yes,” James says, out loud. “Yes.”

The thunderclap that hits him makes no noise, and has no weight, but leaves him blinking and deafened and oddly weightless anyway, in its wake.

The Voice has gone. He knows that without having to ask.

“James,” Michael’s whispering, name cracking in the air like broken glass, “James, please, look at me, come on…”

He starts to lift one hand, to touch Michael, to offer reassurance—he is all right, really—and then stops, staring at his own fingers.

He doesn’t _look_ any different. That’s still his skin, freckles over paleness, little downy bits of hair along his arm catching the light. The fingers move when he tells them to, muscle and bone and tendons flexing, joints bending in the proper way.

It’s all new. He’s human.

Michael’s gone very quiet. James looks away from the contemplation of his body—not an embodiment, a real body—and finds those eyes with his own, and realizes that Michael’s crying, soundlessly, lakewaters spilling over the dam.

He touches Michael’s face. Feels wetness, on his fingertips. “Are you all right?”

“Me? James, I—I’m so sorry, you’ve given up everything, you can’t—we can’t take it back, so please tell me it’ll be all right, tell me you’re not going to regret this, I love you, please—”

“You love me.”

“Of course—”

“Then I haven’t given up everything. Not even close. And I’m not going to regret this. Not ever. Though…I might need your help with something.”

“Anything. What?”

“Well,” James says, and grins, “this is kind of a new body, I mean, it’s technically not, it’s still me, but it _feels_ new, and so I’m thinking I need to explore some things. Sensations. _All_ the sensations. You know, for research purposes.”

“Explorations…” Michael’s starting to smile, now, slowly. “I could help you with that. Investigations. Discoveries. Finding out what you like. How you like to be touched…?”

“There is good. You can start there.”

“Guys!” Anne’s not blushing, because there’s not much that can make a fertility goddess blush, but she is rolling her eyes. “Go find a hotel room, okay? James…” Her expression softens, then. “I’m happy for you.”

“I know.”

“We’ll see you next month, right?”

“You—”

“We’d miss you, you know.” Behind her, heads nod, confirmation, and James looks at them all and smiles and says “Of course, as if I’d not show up, there might be cookies,” and Anne laughs, and pauses just long enough to say “Michael’s welcome too! We like him already, and you’ll just be depressed and eat all my chocolate chips again without him!” and then whisks them all off into someplace else, dramatically.

Time comes unstuck again. They’re sitting on the grass a few feet away from the mansion, and Matthew and the cast and crew and the paramedics are all once again sprinting their direction, because Michael’d called for help ages ago, and in the few seconds before the deluge Michael murmurs, grinning, “Chocolate chips?”

“I like chocolate. And raspberries. And chocolate-covered raspberries.”

“And I’ll remember that. Forever.”

And James smiles back, happily, the sunlight warm on his skin and Michael’s arms secure about him. “I know.”


End file.
